Looking at Me
by LadyRuebo
Summary: William Afton's personal and professional life tangle together after a freak accident involving his young son. Russell Devins is curious about the behavior of Afton's favorite animatronic, the odd ball spectacle of the restaurant and Afton's life—Foxy. Years after Afton's oldest son's disappearance, Russell sees the restaurant's history behind Foxy's face... literally.
1. Glitch

**Written for my sweet nephew and all the wonderful people living with autism. Out lives would be black and white without you.**

 **"He's not 't you see it? He's like me. Just a little different that's all." —the biggest 10 year old foxy/ FNaF fan on the planet.**

 **.org**

 **Please leave a review, and thank you for reading.**

Summer 1990.

"You don't have to flip it down so hard."

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Afton," Russel said as he retracted his hand from Foxy's head like it was a hot stove eye.

"No worries. Now, uh, just grab the eye patch like this."

"Russel Devins leaned closer to the table, watching him intently with his pewter brown eyes. He flipped his thick black hair out of his line of sight.

"Your generation could learn a thing or two from me. More than occupational apprenticeship you know. Real life stuff," William chuckled as his graying brown mustache tickled his upper lip.

"Sure, Mr. Afton," Russel nodded with curiosity.

"Get a haircut and pull your pants up," Afton snorted.

Russel apprehensively noticed his sagging belt line. He hiked up his blue jean to his hips. He was careful to recenter his heavy utility belt below his belly button, confident that it was the culprit of his wardrobe malfunction. His hair—that was just a matter of style. Russel's cheeks reddened with embarrassment.

Afton grinned at the teenager. High school trade training programs were always a reliable source of work. Afton thought of them like drawing names for Christmas. He never knew who he was going to get. They could be 'too cool for school' and thought of themselves as rising geniuses, but they couldn't even fill out a job application. Russel didn't fit this. He fell into the 'trouble maker with a good heart' category. The student authority was often thrilled just to get some of these kids out of the classroom. It was easier to deal with them that way; it was a cheap, effective cop out. Truth be told, Afton preferred Russel's type. He was a bit dull, but worked like a mule.

"Anyway, Foxy's eye ball is hard glass, like a marble. His eye patch is a piece of plastic on a metal hinge. What do you think'll happen?"

"It can break?"

"Right on the money. These animatronics are really expensive, even for something like that. Screw driver please…"

" Flat head or the wonky four way one? What's wrong with 'em this time?"

"You mean a Phillips— Phillips head screw driver. I need that one. His voice box malfunctioned again."

"It seems like this one stays messed up. We'll have to come back and fix him in a week."

"He's a pirate. What do you expect? Fella doesn't follow our rules," William fondly spoke over the machine on the table.

"He's just too much of a bad ass."

"Language, Russel."

"Gee, sorry, sir. God he stinks," Russel said wrinkling his nose, "How'd you fix 'em?"

"Well, how would you have fixed him?"

"Replace the voice box?"

"That too, but what else?"

"I dunno," Russel shrugged his shoulders.

"Common sense tells us to figure out why he blows out every voice box we put in. It was getting too much juice. I replaced the grounded out wire I found and stuck a new voice box in 'em. Now we'll hope for the best."

"You'd think after a while that they'd just get rid of 'em. Know what I'm sayin'—make a new one."

"Nonsense. He's a personal favorite of lots of kids and adults alike. He still has plenty of good fixtures. He's just old. You don't throw out your grandparents just because they get old."

"Touché, Mr. Afton. He's glitchy as all get out, though. Gives me the spooks, know what I'm sayin'," Russel added running his index finger over the sharp yellowing teeth attached to Foxy's gaping jaw, "Maybe we could, uh change his teeth or somethin', make em' less sharp. If it weirds me out you know that its gotta freak them little guys out too."

"What, the kids?"

"Yeah, my lil sis would piss herself. And that hook—jeepers creepers Batman!"

"Nah, you're letting your imagination get ahead of your brain," William laughed. His cheeks rounded beneath his blue eyes as he smiled, " He's just a bit twitchy. Always has been."

"What ever you say, sir. You're the boss."

William raised from his seat at the examination table. He brushed away lingering red stringy pieces of faux fur from his khakis.

"Let's go, we still have to service the others, just general maintenance—rotating musical routines and such" Afton said as he ushered Russel to the door.

Afton stepped through the door first. Russel's olive skin looked sallow in the yellow light hanging from the ceiling. He leaned into the doorframe, lingering head first into the maintenance room. His eyes rested on the patchy animatronic laying limp on the table.

"Come on now."

William's voice snapped Russel out of his trance. He still squeezed the door knob with his white-knuckle vice grip.

"Sorry," Russel uttered as sweat collected on his thick brows.

"It's fine. Just don't slam the door. The masks will fall of the walls."

Russel peaked into the maintenance room again. Smiling empty masks covered the walls. Their void-black eye sockets were unrelenting, following Russel's every move. The door creaked shut at last. Russel straightened his neck and turned to his mentor.

A quaint toothy smile was carved on William's face, "He's my favorite."


	2. Are you stupid?

**Please leave a review. :)**

Winter 1987.

Thomas slinked around the corner. His tucked his knees high against his chest, just like the shifty villains in his favorite comic books. His footed pajamas made his feet quiet against the hardwood floor. He loved and hated them for the same reason— his brother Mike. Big Brother Mike was always a good source of entertainment when the sky outside grew grey and dreary, when there was nothing good on television, or when his mother wouldn't give him an extra quarter for the comic store.

 _You've had your allowance this week_ , she would say. He was sure of it.

The other side of the orange and green footed pajamas wasn't an innocent game of chase played indoors.

 _Cry baby,_ Thomas imagined Mike's harsh words among his friends, _He's such a baby._

Thomas knew deep down what Mike was really all about. He loved precision. He loved his legos; he sat for hours many Saturday afternoons constructing his master pieces. He understood that Mike was a loner, but not by choice.

 _His brain just works different than ours_ , Thomas remembered his mother saying, _He was born that way. He can't interact that same way you and I can with other people._

 _Too much of Michael's brain is used up in those legos_ , his father William would explain.

Thomas paused in the hall way with the thought of his father's words. His mother would always present a steep frown at his father's explanation. Thomas considered asking his mother about it, but he figured one day he would understand without seeming silly in his parent's eyes.

"It's grown up stuff, anyway," Thomas mumbled to himself as he edged to his brother's bedroom.

Thomas held his ear to the door. He twisted the door knob, when silence met his eardrums. He adjusted the pale green bedsheet he tied around his neck. He cupped his hand around his smile to stifle his giggling. He creaked the door open.

Mike was there, like always with his back turned to the door. He was lost, drifting away in his own world full of construction deadlines and wealthy property investors.

"We have to use Roman arches to hold the building up," Mike mumbled to himself, completely oblivious to his brother's presence.

The eleven year old sat on the constellation rug decorating his bedroom floor. His knees began to ache from the pressure placed on them, but he paid it no mind. His task at hand was more important. It always was. A colossal contraption of Legos laid before him. It was his own private Buckingham palace he built in his bedroom. Mike was never interested in actually going and seeing the places he built. There were too many people there, too many eyes bearing down on him. William made it clear that the rest of the family would not miss out because of Mike's 'antics'. Mike didn't mind. The baby sitters were usually kind, and he could recreate the great feats of architecture there in his bedroom.

Thomas leaned onto the door. It creaked as it swung forward with his weight. He snickered at his mistake. He knew he would be given away. Mike dropped the white blocks in his hands. He looked over his shoulder. Thomas' silhouette lingered in the doorway. The little boy's curly black hair left at shadow against his adjacent wall. Mike took a deep breath and turned to the palace in front of his lap.

"I know you're there Tom," Mike said, squeezing his eyes shut at the sound of his own speech.

Thomas giggled at his brother's back. Mike whipped his head around at the sound, partially angry and amused. He couldn't see the boy's face, but he knew Thomas' green eyes were drilling into him from the door, from his own private space. Thomas invaded his sanctuary. It didn't matter that he couldn't see his brother's face. He knew he was there, looking at him. It was enough.

"Go away!," Mike groaned with his eyes closed at the shadow in the door.

"Do it Mike, do it!," Thomas giggled.

"You talk too much!"

Mike's shoulders slumped. His blue eyes popped open and he sucked in his cheeks. His heart galloped inside of his chest, threatening to flee from the bone prison of his rib cage. His frown softened. Thomas didn't understand, and he knew it.

I don't think anyone does, Michael thought.

Mike raised from his seat on the floor. He ripped a wadded up blanket from the top of his full sized bed. He stood and looked at Thomas who was laughing uncontrollably at this point.

"Just do it!"

Mike closed his eyes to speak, "Oh, no. You don't get to decide when it happens," he laughed.

Thomas clang to the door knob and tried to catch his breath when he wasn't snorting with laughter. Before Thomas could bat an eye. Mike hoisted the corners of the blanket high above his head. He charged as fast as he could with both of his hands waded up into the knitted quit. Thomas broke and run. Their footsteps were like roaring thunder in the hall. Mike's snarling growl was drowned out by Thomas' howling scream. Their blankets sailed in the air behind their backs.

They turned the corner at breath neck speed. Thomas' pajama's betrayed him causing him to slide into a wall. Wooden pictured frames cascaded to the floor. Their glass faces shattered over the hard wood floor. Mike stopped abruptly. He slammed into his father's back causing him to fall on his rear. Mike didn't make eye contact. He never did. Something inside never let him. He didn't need to. He could hear it all in his father's voice.

"Michael, are you stupid?"

Mike shuddered in his skin. His head sagged. He stared at William's shoes.

"Michael!"

"Dad, we were just playin'—," Thomas interrupted.

"I don't care," William cut him off.

"Answer me Michael."

"No," Mike said squeezing his eyes.

"What did you say?"

Mike's eyes popped open, and he continued to stare at his father's loafers. It was all he needed to know that William was looming over him.

"Don't you ignore me," his indignant voice boomed.

"I don't know," Mike blurted

"Open your eyes. Look at me!"

Mike tilted his chin up and tried to force his eyes open. His chest heaved with frightened breath. His jaw fell agape as he tried to focus. His nose crinkled above his mouth.

"I don't care what they say is wrong with you. I know you can do it. You're just a disrespectful little—"

"William!," their mother barged in.

Afton turned around to see his wife standing at the other end of the hall.

"Boys go to your rooms," she ordered them.

Thomas scurried away, careful not to get a piece of glass in his foot with Mike hot on his heels. Thomas turned his head to see Mike rubbing his red eyes.

"Sorry," Thomas mouthed before they separated into their own rooms.

Mike closed the door and kneeled in the floor in front of his palace, like nothing happened.

"Will he's your son, you should be ashamed!"

"I don't care. You didn't see it. He chased Tom right into a wall!," his father's voice echoed.

"You know he didn't mean to. They do this all the time."

"Kid wouldn't even look at me!"

"He can't help it and you know it."

"It's disrespectful and you know it. I don't care if he's retarded!"

"You take that back," she fumed.

"No."

Mike ignores the distinct sound of flesh swatting flesh. He was too preoccupied sticking a flag on a steeple of his palace.

"He's not and you know it. You were there when they said they weren't sure what it is. His IQ is above average for christ's sake! It's a processing disorder, you ass."


	3. Cry baby

**Please feel Free to leave a review.**

Winter 1987.

Mike wasn't fond of mornings, especially when the alarm clock startled him awake for school. He hated the way the sun blinded his shadow drenched eyes. It always stung when he woke up. The red spots in his vision took forever to go away.

"Morning Mikey. Morning Tom," the bus driver chipperly said when the door swung back.

"Hiya," Tom greeted him as he bounced up the steps of the bus.

"Hello," Mike offered as he batted his eyes.

Mike followed his brother up the steps. Tom ran to the back of the bus and scoot into a seat with his commute buddy Daniel who lived down the street from them. Mike wandered to the back of the bus, looking down at his red converse sneakers. He took a seat with his crew just behind his brother.

"Sup Mike," Jordan said as he thumped him on the shoulder.

"Hey guys," Mike offered as he cradled his shoulder and punched Jordan in the thigh.

Trey Simmons, leaned over in his seat and scrounged something from the floor of the bus. Mike stopped rough housing in the bench seat between the other boys and paused.

"It's Tom's," Mike said as he got a better look at the brown key chain.

"Which one is this again?," Trey asked.

"Uh, Freddy. Fred bear."

"Your dad built all of those things?"

"Uh, huh," Mike absently replied.

"Is Tom still scared to death of them?"

"Yeap."

"Then why is his birthday party there this weekend?," Jordan laughed.

"My dad's a tight ass," Mike grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut.

Trey stood and leaned over the back of the seat in front of him, ignoring the pleas of the bus driver for him to sit down.

"Hey whine-bag!," Trey teased the six year old, " Looks like you dropped something!"

"My keychain!"

Tom reached up for the keychain that fell from his backpack, sitting up in his knees in the seat. Trey raised his hand, dangling the keychain above Tom's reach.

"Hey!"

"What's a matter? Little baby, not tall enough?"

"Give it back!"

"Okay, come get it," Trey swallowed his laughter, tilting his head.

Tom reached, but Trey hoisted it away when he was close.

"No fair, you said you would!," The six year old whined, "Mike can you get him to give it back?"

Three sets of eyes sent Mikes head drooping to his lap. He wanted to hide his face, but he would still know that they were there staring at him. It would have been a normal gesture to anyone else.

"Common Mike. Let's help him grow up a little," Jordan said

"Yeah, Mike," Trey pressured.

"I say at his birthday party that we get him up close and personal with Fred Bear," Aaron suggested with a wicked smile evolving on his lips, "That'll toughen him up!"

"Yeah!," Trey gasped.

Tom's horrified eyes said all.

"I'll tell mom on you guys!," Tom blurted.

"Tell dad too, while your at it… baby," Mike seethed before he folded his arms across his chest and plopped down in his seat.


	4. Between My Teeth

**Thanks guys!**

Summer 1990.

 _Russell had always been good with his hands. He was a passionate painter until his fourteenth birthday. His father came home blasting drunk. Russell couldn't forget how he barged through the kitchen with that brown bottle in his hand. The candles were lit and flickering on top of the white single tier cake. The kids gathered at the table hushed, Silence fell onto their lips. His father stumbled over and smacked a pack of Marlboro cigarettes in his son's hand._

 _"Something for your hands to do," Russel remembered him saying, "Can't have you being a Sissy. Happy birthday sissy!"_

 _Russel speechlessly sat the cigarettes on the blue table cloth. His father hoisted the sloshing bottle over the white cake. His chin tilted in unison with his glass bottle, tucking his chin to his chest. Bitter smelling, straw colored brew poured onto the cake. A sticky carbonated foam fizzed on top of the icing._

"What are you doing Russ?"

William's voice snapped him out of his trance.

"Oh, just a little bit of fluff and puff sir ya know, just giving pirate's cove a fresh look."

"By painting a sign?"

"Yeah," Russell said as he lowered his paint brush and looked to his mentor, " The back says 'Out of order' the other side's gonna say 'It's me, Foxy' so that way people'll know if the show's on or not. It's kinda hard to tell with just this curtain. The staff this morning was saying that people keep wondering in here thinking that the show's gonna start."

"I like your initiative, but that can wait. We're gonna test him out today," Afton said squeezing a laptop beneath his arm.

"Cool! I've never seen one go at it before," Russell said hopping off of the stage and taking a seat next to Afton.

William opened his lap top. Russell leaned over his shoulder.

"So that's what the programming looks like?"

"Yeap, that's it," Afton replied.

"What is it, C++?"

" No, it's called java."

The lights in the cove dimmed and the curtains rolled back around the round stage. Yellow lights angled over the stage flickered over Foxy's slumping head. Russel leaned back in his seat. He squeezed the arms of his chair as he looked into Foxy's moon yellow eyes. Foxy's head jittered until his neck straightened over his shoulders. His eye patch flipped up, and he blinked at the crowd of two. The mechanics in his ears whirred in the pin-drop- quiet air. Russell sunk into his seat. Foxy looked lost, his face was blank, even confused like he just woke up from a strange dream. Foxy walked forward and planted his hands on his hips.

"Ahoy, yee swashbuckling maties! ," a raspy voice said as Foxy waived his glimmering hook at the audience, "I see there's only two of you scoundrels today. Is it a special ocassion?," the machine prompted.

"Did you notice it?," Afton nudged Russell.

"What— the hook?"

Foxy's prerecorded antics rambled on in front of them.

"No," William said patiently, yet he rolled his eyes, "Just watch. Watch his mouth."

"Here's a joke for yee wee scaliwags," Foxy started, "What's a pirate's favorite letter?"

Foxy's poorly timed flapping jaws snapped shut. His yellow eyes narrowed on Russell.

"It's interactive. Go ahead," Afton encouraged.

"Uh," Russell began with a quirked brow, " I got it. Aaaargh," he said with a cheesy smile.

"That's what most yellow-bellied land-loving nancies think," Foxy answered, " But," he raised his index finger, " It's the sea!"

"Did you see it?," Afton inquired.

"I saw something… in his mouth."

Afton's head slowly rolled on his neck to look at the high schooler sitting nest to him. His brows lowered on his blue eyes. Russell tilted his head as Foxy told joke after joke, staring into his toothy jowls.

"Ya know, maybe something got real hot in there. It almost looked like something melted. That might be what caused the other wire to short out. We could take a look after we're done testing him and all."

"Oh, yeah, sure. We just can't do it today. It'll have to wait till tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

"I know. You busy? You're mom's been working this week right?"

"Ma?," Confusion was painted on Russell's face at the odd question, "Yeah."

"Come over tomorrow evening. We'll take a look at him then if you want. You have to get your hours in for this week."

"Sure. Eh, what time Mr. Afton?"

"Let's do Eight o'clock."

"Uh," Russell took his eyes off of foxy. He hesitated, " Sure. Okay."


	5. Closetscape

**Please forgive me if the formatting is strange. Sometimes when I post a story it changes the indentations. Thank you guys so much for reading. Let me know if you're enjoying it.**

Late winter 1987.

Thomas tucked his quilt beneath his cold feet. He went to bed hours ago, but he couldn't sleep because of them. His mother and father rumbled the walls with their screaming match. The conflict seemed endless. They continue to cut each other with their words although the moon raised high into the night sky. Thomas shuffled in his bed. He turned to his nightstand and the imposing digital clock sitting on it. The red glow of the letters burned his eyeballs.

"One o'clock," he whined and rubbed his tired eyes.

He rolled over and flopped back down to his bed. He tightly hugged his pillow to his stomach. He pulled the pillow over his head to try to drown out the ambient sound.

" _You don't even care that Mike's missing!", his mother sobbed, "You haven't lifted a finger to look for him—leaving it all up to the police."_

 _His father's words still scrubbed his tired ears, "Don't care? Don't care! First Thomas and now this. Why do you think I work so much, Lola?"_

 _"Because you don't care about your own son!"_

 _" Let's not play dumb here okay. I know it and you know it. Mike's not my kid, but, I can't stand the thought of him missing. I need something to occupy me."_

 _"Don't you say that! He looks just like you! Mike is your son… was your son! He's probably dead now for all we know, kidnapped by some sicko creep at the restaurant."_

 _"I told you, nothing was on the tapes, Lola."_

 _"I think you know something."_

 _"What are you implying?"_

 _"Will, You know exactly what I'm implying. Why didn't you close the restaurant for an investigation? I cant stand that stupid restaurant, and I can't stand you! Why do you keep them—those things after what happened to—"_

 _"I can't help what happened to Tom! What do you think puts food on your table Lola!"_

Thomas threw his pillow from his face. It landed haphazardly on the floor.

"At least I don't have school tomorrow," he comforted himself and stared out his window.

Thomas sat straight up in bed.

"Do I?"

His heart sank to his knotting stomach. The collar of his pajamas grew wet with sweat. The fabric began to stick to his pasty threw back the quilt on his bed. He hopped over the side and walked straight to his wall calendar. His brows furrowed.

 _Why can't I remember?_ , he thought.

Thomas tilted his chin and looked at the calendar. His eye brows lifted to make room for his stunned gaze. It was completely blank. Just the name of the month existed above the empty grid. The place holders for the days of the week were present, but the numbered days disappeared in their corresponding squares. The tedious 'x's that he marked the passing days with had evaporated into thin air. He shook his head in disbelief.

 _Every day has to have a date right?_

He closed his eyes and tried to remember his day at school.

 _They always mention the date in the morning announcements._

His chest heaved with panicking breath. He wiped the sticky palms of his hands on his flannel pants. He considered

 _What's wrong with me? I cant even remember what we had for breakfast this morning!_

Thomas dashed to his night stand. He dug through the drawers voraciously. He pulled out the black remote linked to his small airplane themed television set. He squished the power button over and over again with his thumb. He dug his nail into the soft button as his frustration built. The television didn't turn on.

"Batteries must be dead."

He stuck the remote back in the drawer. He stretched his arms high above his head and yawned as he walked to his bedroom door leading to the kitchen. He often wondered why his room had two doors. If he recalled correctly, it had something to do with it being his father's old office. Either way, he couldn't remember. He twisted the knob and opened the door. He was having second thoughts already.

 _Mom and dad'll just send me back to bed and tell me I'm being silly._

He paused in the doorway, eager to hear if they were still arguing. The lights were off. It was pitch black in that long hall. They were gone. Thomas closed the door.

 _Did they go to bed?_

He crawled back into his bed. His arm hung limply off of the side of his bed. He wanted the red burning letters on the clock.

 _1:26AM Already?_

Thomas was about to drift away when he heard it. He rolled over in his bed. This black curly bed head defied gravity all over his scalp. He rubbed his eyes until they focused on the closet. He heard the distinctive creaking—the rusty hinged scraping of the closet door.

 _It doesn't look like it moved. Was I dreaming?_

Thomas gasped and tossed the cover over his head. He knew what he saw. The collapsible door jiggled in its track. He peaked over his quilt. The coast was clear. Thomas leaned in his bead and snatched his yellow scout flashlight from his night stand. He crept from his bed with quiet feet. He paced over the the cracked closet door. Seeing the ends of his hanging clothes gave him comfort. It was a sense of normality on this strange night. Some of the anxiety left him. His spine straightened with the new assurance.

 _Like dad says about other things. It's just my imagination._

Thomas pulled back the closet doors and flashed his flash light inside. A frightened squeal breached his vocal chords. He fell backwards on his butt. He clamored back to the doors and desperately held it shut with his shaking hands.

"Mom! Dad! He cried.

He was amazed at how quickly fat tear drops collected on his eye lids. His brain tried to process the image burned in his mind. Row after row of sharp teeth greeted him behind the closet doors. The smoldering burgundy eyes were the first thing Thomas saw. Thomas closed his eyes to try to flush the image from his head, but he could still see the slithering sharp tongue pulsating between those long jaws.

Any second he expected his mother to bust through the door. He remained closed in, alone, with it.

 _Maybe they didn't hear_.

"Help! Help!," he screamed until his voice cracked.

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders over his ears. They were taking too long. He just knew it. He couldn't bear to look.

Nothing happened. Thomas opened his eyes and allowed his spilled tears to collect below his chin. He turned his head. Foot steps thumped through the hall to his right. His heart still didn't settle; they only thing separating him from the jaws of death were two pieces of flimsy wood. He waited for the door knob to click and the door to be thrown open.

Nothing happened. Again.

Thomas squinted his eyes at the strange sight on the corner of his night stand.

 _Flowers?_

His mother loved tulips, but they were lost on him. A piece of white card stock stuck above the soft twilight purple blooms. It was spiked into the soil of the pot. Thomas read the bold black letters etched into the card—' We're well soon. Love Trey, Jordan, Aaron, and Mike.'

Thomas' hands slipped from the knobs on the closet.

 _Am I imagining this. They weren't there before. How did I not see them? What do they mean get well soon?_

Thomas readied his flashlight. He poised his thumb over its switch. His trembling hands latched onto the handles of the closet door. He held his breath against the wishes of his begging lungs. He moved back the door and flicked on his flashlight. Thomas' mouth fell open. His feet were cement-heavy brinks grounding his gooseflesh covered body in place. His soul was tempted to flee. Adrenaline dumped into his constricting veins.

The robotic menace was still there crouching in the closet floor. It diverted its eyes from the small boy standing before it. The animatronic's red tipped ears twitched at the sound of the closet doors slamming shut again.

Thomas struggled to catch his breath. He had no doubt it was like the intentions his father made for the restaurant.

 _There's a bear, a bunny, a chicken, and a red fox, Thomas tried to reason._

The fact still clogged the gears of his brain.

 _None of them look this bad though…_

"I'm sorry…cry baby."

The boy's ear lingered over his shoulder. He was sure of what he heard, but he questioned the voice carrying the tediously drew back the door again. It was him alright—hook and all. It was foxy. The smell alone was enough evidence. The sharp toothed menace was standing with its head draped with the clothes of the closet. Thomas gawked at the strange sight.

"Did you follow my dad home?," Tom whispered.

Foxy turned his head. The robot's head shuddered violently over its shoulders. It squeezed its eyes shut before its neck sagged over its chest. Its metal alloy hand covered its ominous glowing eyes. A static shriek escaped its snapping mouth.

Thomas shoved the door shut. His mouth curved into a 'o' at the realization. Thomas peaked through the closet again with his flashlight in tow.

"Mikey…," Thomas said leaning closer to the wobbling robot, "Have you seen him—my brother?"

Foxy tilted his head over his shoulder taking a quick glance at the boy. He extended his hook. Thomas jumped back, startled by the jerky motion. Foxy whipped his head to face the wall. Tom's hazel eyes remained steadfast. Foxy's eyes closed, wrinkling the tattered fur on his face. Thomas reached for the red, stuffed fox that was impaled by the hook.

"For me?," Thomas began, "Thanks. It was just my birthday a few days ago."

Thomas slipped the stuffed animal off the hook. He held his flashlight beneath his arm. Stray chunks of fuzzy stuffing fell from the toy. Thomas plucked it from the ground and poked it back through the hole in the stuffed animal's back. He looked up again to see his strange house guest.

"Wait, where'd you go?," Tom's innocent voice rang as he stared at the empty closet.


	6. It's Me

**Last chapter! I would really appreciate if you guys left a review.**

Summer 1990.

William threw his thick canvass gloves from his hands. He laid them neatly atop one another on the table. Afton gave attention to the cigarette dangling from his chapped lips. He slipped the zippo lighter from his pocket. A flickering flame scorched the end of the rolled cigarette. The smell of menthol filled the air. Swirling plumes of smoke lofted from the skinny roll of white paper.

"You know," Afton began as he stared at the limp body, "I kept my promise."

William paused and inhaled through the cigarette. Traces of smoke got trapped in the whiskers of his mustache. He turned his head over his shoulder. The shuffling footsteps from his left ear to the right.

"Ah, he's here," Afton nodded with approval, "I told your mother I's always look after you after the incident with Tom."

William allowed his hand to linger. He brushed the red fur of Foxy's arm.

"She used to fret so much over you. Still kinda does really," he said as he stood up.

Russel's voice echoed through the wall, "Yo, Mr. Afton. I'm here!"

"Russells's a good boy," William said turning his attention to the deactivated animatronic, " I hate to. I really hate to," he said running his hands through his hair, " But, I did promise your mother. You need vocal chords—the real thing this time. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don't blame me. Blame fate for giving him good pipes."

William walked to the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob.

"At least you get to be my favorite at something right?," he frowned and held his cigarette with his teeth, "My favorite animatronic…"

William slipped through the door and gently closed it behind him. Foxy's leg hung of the table, just as Afton left it. His eye patch stuck straight up from his face, revealing both of his crossed glossy yellow eyes. His was steel hard and absent as usual. Their voices began to slip through the walls.

"Heya Russell. On time like usual."

"You know it Mr. A. When are we gonna get started?"

"Oh, on Foxy—just a few minutes."

"Yeah, okay," Russel's voice raised with the older man's off putting statement.

"I need you to do something for me first."

"Sure."

"We have to unload some inventory that day shift forgot about this mornin'."

"That's weird."

"Plain lazy's what it is. It's out back behind the building. The delivery guy's pretty new. I don't think he knew any better. I'll go back and get started. Go into maintenance and get my butterfly knife. I forgot it. Should be laying right on the table—can't miss it."

"I've got my box cutter. We could share it if you want."

"It'll be faster the other way. I'll meet you out back."

"What ever you say."

Russell eased the door of the maintenance wing open. He eye balled Foxy's body on the table. He hated the maintenance room, sincerely hated it. He could handle the animatronics laying on the table like unearthed corpses. It was the masks hanging on the walls. The light from the hallway gleamed onto the masks. The room always seemed to be dark even when Russel flicked the lights on. In his mind the masks were like heads floating in the dark with their eyes gouged out. He would never admit to it.

 _That's something a little kid would think man, he said to himself._

The blade of Afton's knife stood out against the table. Russel hurried. He paced to the table with his forehead angled down and his eyes fixed straight ahead. He scraped the knife off the table didn't bother retracting the blade. Russell gave himself a moment to enjoy the craftsmanship. The knife's smooth wooden handle rested comfortably in the palm of his hand.

The knife fell from his limp fingers. The blade bounced across the tiled floor. Russell couldn't bring himself to fetch it, let alone move. The knife came to rest beneath the table where Foxy shot himself straight up to sit upright. Foxy's neck clicked as he angled his head to look at Russell. The silence was unbearable. He just wanted to turn on his heels and dart to the door. Foxy cocked his head over his shoulder; his glitchy mechanics cause his body to shudder.

"What's up with you?," Russell mumbled as his face twisted with ugly confusion.

Foxy's eyes settled on the teenager.

"Run."

Foxy flung himself from the table. His mouth opened wide, allowing his tongue to hang from the side of his mouth between his teeth. He raised his metallic fingers. His jagged hook raised high above his head. He screeched and plowed through the cluttered room toward Russell. Russell couldn't throw back the door quick enough for his liking. Russell sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him. He couldn't bring himself to look back, but the clomping steps of Foxy's feet were hot on his heels. They made short work of the hallway although the chase seemed like an eternity. The black and white checkered walls flew past them like white dashes passing by a speeding car on a highway. Foxy routed Russell through the dark kitchen. Pots and pans fell from their burners and counter spaces.

Afton heard the commotion outside, but though the chef had worked his shift that day high as usual and left the clean dishes in precarious places gain. He wasn't completely incorrect. Afton turned his attention to the unmarked back door. His nose grew blind to the reeking dumpsters occupying the landscape behind him. His imposing form waited between the two wooden privacy fences. Alarm didn't rise in his spirit. It rarely did, even when suspicion began to surface about his murky intentions. He could see it in Russells eyes when they worked, when they sat alone in pirate's cove. He knew Russell would come. He would do exactly what he was told even if he was slow moving. Afton loved it and hated it at the same time. Russell's saving grace was his downfall; he was a good boy.

Russell's tired legs shuffled through the security office. The toe of his worn out white tennis shoe snagged the leg of the cheap rolling office chair. His forearms saved his head from smacking the concrete floor. Russell raised his eyes. He saw its reflection in the glass window above his head. The animatronic foreshadowed his presence with the hook digging into the face of the door. Russell's back tingled with anticipation. Any minute he was sure he would feel Foxy's hook slice into the soft flesh of his back. It wouldn't be clean. No. It's not sharp enough. The metal monstrosity would get stuck on flesh and bone. Russell dreaded the impending carpet burn of Foxy dragging him off by his ribs. He desperately climbed over the heaping wreck he caused. He pulled himself up using the desk, knocking off mounds of collected fast food garbage and paperwork. The plummeting desk fan sliced his shin wide open. Warm blood caused the fabric of his jeans to stick to his clammy skin. Russell hobbled through the next open door, amazed he hadn't been trampled by the freakish pirate nightmare.

 _There's the exit!, Russell thought_.

Russell lunged for the door. He threw the door back on his hinges and scurried like a rat from a trap. He tripped down the steps to the entrance of the restaurant, fumbling over his shock-clumsy feet. He turned right on the side walk, still running and didn't look back. Foxy ambled to the door and watched Russell's back disappear into the dark alley. He blinked his yellow eyes, fascinated by their glow illuminating the foggy night air. His hook scraped the concrete patio, causing his ears to flicker on his head. He pulled the pierced, flimsy plastic name tag closer to his eyes. He never paid much mind to being right handed in life, but he wanted nothing more than to rip the hook from his arm. A tickle on his nose or the dry ache of tired eyes subconsciously sent his hook to rip the fabric of his head or almost gouge out his eyes. Foxy turned around, leaving the front door wide open.

 _Don't come back here… cry baby. I could'a caught you if I wanted to. You talk too much. Save your voice. Don't come back. I might not be able to run you off next time. My dad won't let you go. You'd have to look at him—the real him_ , Foxy thought as he walked inside.


End file.
